


The Problem

by Sheila_Snow



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Car Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-05
Updated: 2005-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheila_Snow/pseuds/Sheila_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch has a problem, but he's worked long and hard on a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem

Hutch risked a nervous glance at his fidgeting partner and felt the left side of his mouth quirk into a smile. He didn't want to let Starsky think he was any less annoyed about the situation than _he_ was, or this evening's game would be over before the balls were even in play.

Wincing at the unintentional Freudian slip, Hutch turned his attention back to what little remained of the late-night traffic. Now, if he could just maintain his nerve long enough to follow through with this crazy stunt . . .

No, not a stunt. And most certainly not a game. Life and death drama for his increasingly frazzled psyche was more like it.

He and Starsky had become lovers almost three months ago. Well, two months and twenty-seven days—not that he was counting. It had happened after yet another close call on the job, or as Starsky would put it, "a kiss your ass goodbye moment."

They seemed to be having far too many of those lately.

He had thought he was going to lose Starsky that day—almost had—and it hit Hutch harder every time it happened. That night, they had retired to Starsky's couch to recover, regroup and watch one of Starsky's horrid creature features, as they had so many times in the past.

_This_ time, however, they had both imbibed far more than their usual, and Hutch had found himself staring into Starsky's eyes as they'd talked. Inexplicably adrift, then hopelessly ensnared, Hutch had been incapable of looking away.

When he'd surfaced from his trance to find Starsky snapping fingers in front of his face, Hutch had grabbed the hand, pulled Starsky close, and kissed him full on the lips.

He wasn't sure who had been more surprised, he or Starsky.

They had made love that night, and several times since, but Hutch was getting the distinct impression their encounters meant something entirely different to Starsky than they did for him.

Well, obviously, Hutchinson, considering **you** weren't the one in Starsky's apartment tonight.

He intended to change that. He knew Starsky cared about him. No, he knew Starsky _loved_ him, but something seemed to be keeping his partner from taking that final, irrevocable step toward an exclusive relationship.

Hutch had uncovered at least one possible explanation for this during their romantic encounters, both at Starsky's place and his own. There were too many lingering ghosts, too many reminders of superficial encounters, too many one-night stands with a host of women who usually meant little more to them than convenient warm bodies.

Hutch didn't want to be one of many. He wanted to be the _one_. And he had a pretty good idea how to go about obtaining that goal.

They needed neutral ground, someplace that was theirs alone . . . and a situation that carried no extraneous female associations.

Hutch intended to open Starsky's eyes to the possibility of something more than just brief, intense encounters between two people closer than friends, and he didn't want to rely on alcohol to lower those barriers. He wanted to break through Starsky's shell so that whenever Hutch touched him, it would mean more than a mere comforting gesture or a fond, passing memory.

They needed a night, just one night, that would imprint Ken Hutchinson on the part of Starsky's soul he reserved for _permanent_ relationships.

With a determined grimace, Hutch returned his concentration to driving the crotchety old car. He slowed it minutely, knowing from the countless miles he'd put on the loaner earlier in the day _exactly_ what speed caused the most vibration from the grossly unbalanced wheels.

He was delighted to learn all his exhaustive research had not been in vain.

"Jeez, Hutch. I thought you'd managed to scrape the bottom of the barrel in your choice of cars before, but this piece of crap proves you've set a totally _new_ substandard."

Bringing the hulk to a shuddering stop at the street's only working stoplight, Hutch said, “Problem, Starsk?"

He glanced over and caught Starsky's gaze. When Starsky continued to glare at him as if he'd lost his mind, Hutch lifted an inquiring eyebrow. He was afraid that staring at his partner was becoming somewhat of an addiction, but this was one addiction Hutch didn't intend to break.

Starsky sighed. "The light's green."

"Huh?"

"Someone smack you 'cross the head tonight or something? The light's _green_, Hutch."

"Oh. Sorry."

When Hutch got the battered car back to the appropriate chassis-vibrating speed, his partner once again squirmed in his seat, obviously uncomfortable . . . and just as obviously too embarrassed to mention it.

Starsky said, "I don't know why you think _I'm_ the one with the problem . . ."

"Good." Hutch interrupted smoothly, a bright smile on his face. "This car's only a loaner until I get my baby fixed."

"Resurrected is more like it," Starsky muttered. "You should have named her Lazarus."

There was a brief silence.

"Damn," Starsky whispered softly, shifting yet again in his seat.

Hutch risked another glance, relieved to note that Starsky had thrown on one of his favorite pair of jeans, which were _very_ well broken in . . . and tight. Evidently _too_ tight, based on Starsky's glassy-eyed agitation.

"Sure there's not a problem, buddy?" he asked lightly, pulling his own eyes reluctantly back to the road.

He was waiting for it, and he got it. The Explosion.

"Hell, no, blintz. Why should there be a problem? What would give you even the _slightest_ indication there would be a problem?"

Hutch didn't have to look at Starsky to know his thoughts—the familiar dry sarcasm in that beloved voice painted the picture precisely in his mind: eyes straight ahead, chin down, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

In a word: pissed.

Hutch shrugged and played dumb. "I dunno. You just seem . . . restless, I guess." They hit a dark patch in the road, where the increasingly scattered streetlights were almost nonexistent, and Hutch reached out to put a reassuring hand on Starsky's arm.

It wasn't Hutch's fault that he had to swerve (forcefully) to miss a very large (fictitious) pothole and accidentally (of course) draped said reassuring hand on his partner's upper thigh instead.

Starsky jumped, whether from the unexpected swerving of the car or from the placement of his partner's hand he wasn't sure, but Hutch didn't have to fake his next action. He instinctively moved to brace his unseatbelted partner, his hand moving up and tightening reflexively on the muscled thigh.

"Hutch! What the hell? You tryin' to kill us both, partner?" Starsky had one hand braced on the dashboard and one on Hutch's shoulder, his eyes glued to the road as if he could make the car travel in a straight line by sheer force of will.

"Sorry," Hutch said. "Pothole." He was disinclined to move his hand, which was warming nicely from his partner's body heat, but when a quick glance confirmed that Starsky was staring at him in blatant disbelief, Hutch reluctantly returned his right hand to the wheel.

Silence.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

He heard Starsky take a deep breath.

"I thought you told me you hadn't been drinkin'?"

Hutch opened his mouth to reply, but the Starsky Express was already up to full steam.

"I mean, Dobey would've never allowed us to pull this unscheduled shift if he knew _both_ of us had been drinkin'." There was another pause. "Actually, I'm kinda surprised he did anyway . . . but you really shouldn't have lied to him and told him that _you_ were sober."

Hutch turned and lifted a significant eyebrow. "I am."

Starsky went on as if he hadn't heard him. "And that's why we're taking this rat-trap instead of the Torino, 'cause _I'm_ the one who's had a couple of beers, right?"

"I think you had more than a 'couple,' Starsk, and we're taking the rat-trap because 'unobtrusive stakeout' and 'glaringly red, white-striped tomato' tend to be mutually exclusive, as well as counterproductive."

Hutch could almost feel the indignation radiating from his partner. 

"Aw come on, Hutch, I told you I only had three beers and that's all I had."

Starsky _had_ to be uncomfortable if he were choosing to ignore the implied slight on his beloved Torino. "You said a 'couple,' Starsky."

"'Couple' can mean a lot of things. It's . . . what's that word? . . . mallardable."

Hutch opened his mouth to make the correction, but he wasn’t _quite_ quick enough.

"For me, a 'couple' means three," Starsky continued. There was a pause, and then in slightly diminished volume, "Okay, maybe four, but no more than that."

Hutch sighed. Getting into one of these ridiculous debates with Starsky wasn't exactly what he had in mind for tonight, but he couldn't help it. He thought longingly of the many potential uses for the duct tape he'd found in the trunk this morning.

"'Couple' means two, Starsk. Always has, always will. And it's 'malleable.'"

"Huh? Oh, right. Well, maybe in Duluth. You probably _all_ talk funny there."

Hutch sighed again. He glanced down at the speedometer and realized he'd let the speed creep up a bit. Couldn't have that. As he slowed the carefully chosen loaner to the precise speed, the near teeth-chattering vibration returned with renewed gusto.

He sensed more than saw that Starsky had resumed fidgeting.

"Damn it, Hutch!"

"Hmmm?"

"It's bad enough the engine rattles and pings like it's gettin' ready to throw a rod . . ."

Hutch swallowed quickly and almost choked. _Interesting choice of words, Starsk._

". . . but couldn't you have at least gotten the friggin' tires balanced?"

They hit another stretch of dark road, and Hutch smiled broadly, knowing his partner couldn't see it. "Oh, is _that_ the problem?" he asked innocently. "I was wondering . . ."

"The _problem_ is that this stupid excuse for a vehicle vibrates more than a bed in one of those sleazy 'Do ya want the room for the whole night or just an hour?' motels!"

Hutch glanced over and saw his partner trying to adjust himself surreptitiously. Distracted by the view, he nearly ran the car off the road . . . again.

Starsky quickly removed his left hand from his groin, leaned over, and jerked the steering wheel so that the clunker was once more on the straight and narrow. "Damn it, Hutch, are you _sure_ you haven't been drinkin'?"

"Quite sure. The only thing I had tonight was guava juice with St. John's wort and saw palmetto extract."

Silence again.

"Is any of that stuff hallucinogenic?"

"Starsky!" Hutch was genuinely shocked that his partner would even suggest such a thing, and the hurt transmitted itself quite plainly through his voice.

There was a slight shuffling sound as Starsky squirmed, maybe this time in embarrassment.

"Sorry. You've just been actin' kind of strange tonight, and I haven't been able to get a handle on what the problem is."

"I imagine my problem is much the same as yours. Getting pulled from a quiet night at home when we're supposed to be off-duty, and having to sit through another boring, senseless, interminable stakeout." Hutch tried to put as much disgust in his voice as possible, hoping his act was convincing.

"Yeah, well. At least _you_ were alone."

Starsky's reply was one part petulance laced with two parts self-pity.  Endearing, as always.

Hutch reached out to lay a commiserating hand on Starsky's shoulder, rubbing gently. "Aw, buddy, I'm sorry. She was a hot one, huh?"

"Yeah. You have _no_ idea."

Hutch caught a brief flash of the famous Starsky smile competing with the passing streetlights before it disappeared just as suddenly.

"Things were just starting to get interestin' when you came by. I mean _really_ interestin'." Frustration segued into obvious puzzlement. "Still can't figure out why you and Dobey couldn't get through on the phone. It seemed to be working fine before we left."

"Who knows, partner? Maybe you just didn't hear it with all the caterwauling going on."

"Caterwauling? Damn it, Hutch, she wasn't _that_ loud, for Pete's sake!"

Hutch laughed. "Unless there's something you want to tell me, Starsk, that wasn't a _woman's_ voice I heard making all that noise." As he pulled off the road into an abandoned tree-lined parking lot, he counted silently to himself. _One . . . two . . . three . . ._

Starsky didn't disappoint. "Now you wait just one doggone minute . . ."

Hutch made sure they had a good view of the dilapidated warehouse they had been watching over the last several nights, then shut off the car's pitifully protesting engine. He reached over to pat Starsky on the cheek, and said, "That's all right, buddy. You've obviously been holding back on me. As much racket as you make during the day, I was _really_ surprised to find you didn't make even more noise in bed."

Starsky spluttered. There was really no other word for it. He spluttered. Hutch could see, even in the erratic light from the single, faltering streetlight, that Starsky's face was flushed with obvious embarrassment.

Actually, the sounds Hutch had heard emanating from Starsky's apartment were anything but caterwauling, but he couldn't resist jerking Starsky's chain. His partner could be very vocal in the throes of passion, but it definitely had been music, not noise, that Hutch heard when he'd stood outside the apartment door.

Hutch closed his eyes in remembered pain. He had stood _outside_ that door, panting, with a raging hard-on competing shamelessly with the jealousy and resentment flaring from within. It had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done to stand out there and wait, knowing that someone else was giving Starsky pleasure, touching him, wringing those sounds from his throat.

That someone else was _loving_ him.

But somehow Hutch had kept to his plan, meticulously and carefully thought out, and he'd waited. Waited until the impassioned sounds grew more desperate. Waited until he knew Starsky was near the point of no return before he finally raised the clenched fist he'd held wretchedly at his side and knocked, loudly and insistently, on the door.

There had been abrupt silence. Then a single, heartfelt curse and more silence before the tousled hair and passion-dilated eyes had eventually peeked around the barely opened door.

And now, here he was with Starsky, in a narrow, debris-strewn parking lot flanked by ponderous trees that crouched over the tattered strip of macadam like vultures over a choice carcass. In the deepest part of the night in a deserted section of town, populated only by ragged remnants of buildings in various stages of demolition . . . except for the sorry excuse for a warehouse they were supposed to be watching. An area with no visible signs of life, no movement except for the fitful stirring of branches in a reluctant breeze . . . a dark and forlornly abandoned place.

It was . . . perfect.

"Perfect," Starsky muttered, and slumped miserably in his seat. "You'd think that Collins and Richards could have at least waited around to brief us before splittin'." Starsky straightened slowly as he looked around suspiciously. "Kind of surprising, actually, considerin' how much of a stickler for protocol Collins is."

Oops. Missed that one, Hutchinson.

"Well, we _are_ quite a bit late, Starsk. They probably just left." Hutch tried to come across nonchalant, but he wasn't absolutely sure how well he succeeded. _Time for a little misdirection._ "You weren't exactly Mario Andretti getting out to the car, you know."

"Oh, yeah?" If there had been any more bristling coming from Starsky's direction, he would have been a porcupine. "Why don't _you_ try shovin' a rock-hard dick into these pants and see how quick you are."

Hutch coughed, he choked, he . . . spluttered. Since that was _exactly_ what Hutch dreamed of doing almost constantly since their first encounter, it was all he could manage at the moment.  As he leaned over the steering wheel, coughing, trying to get the saliva out of his lungs and back into his mouth where it belonged, he felt Starsky pounding him on the back.

"Hutch?" The voice began to sound panicky. "Hutch? You okay?"

Catching his breath at last, Hutch gasped, "I _was_ until you herniated those last two vertebrae in my thoracic spine."

"Oh." The pounding abruptly stopped. It was replaced, unfortunately, with a gentle hand that rubbed soothing circles over his upper back. "Sorry, babe."

As good as the magic hand felt—and it felt exceptionally good—_that_ wasn't on tonight's agenda either. Hutch straightened reluctantly against his seat and felt Starsky's hand disengage.

There was silence while Hutch struggled to get his breathing under control . . . and Starsky returned to sulking.

For some perverse reason, Starsky's sulking was one of the things that was most appealing to Hutch, exasperating as he was in the midst of one. He seemed somehow more approachable, more childlike, more . . . vulnerable than when he was in one of his buoyant, irrepressible moods.

Hutch hoped with all his heart that the "approachable" part would get them through tonight with all of Hutch's essential body parts intact.

"I don't know why it had to be _us_ getting called in just 'cause Richards got sick." Starsky put his chin in his right hand and propped his elbow against the window—the picture of abject, martyred misery.

Hutch tried to hide his grin as Starsky's elbow slid across the mixture of charcoal and grease he'd "accidentally" left there, almost invisible against the matte black of the clunker's interior.

"What the . . . !" Starsky straightened and leaned forward almost double in his seat, twisting the arm behind him and attempting with squinting eyes to see what was smeared on the elbow of his favorite jacket.

Hutch smiled fondly. His flexible partner could do the most convincing imitation of a pretzel he had ever seen. "Oops," he said aloud.

"What do ya mean, 'oops'?" Starsky glanced up from his contortionist exhibition and glared at Hutch. "What the hell did you _do_, moron?"

Hutch shrugged. "I was having a little problem getting the door to open without it screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard, so I greased it."

Starsky didn't move, still staring at him with his head nearly touching his knees. "You greased it." The patented infuriated Starsky glare could have faced down an LSD tripper. "You're supposed to put the grease on the inside, Hutch, the _inside_!"

"Sorry," Hutch said airily. "Guess I got a little carried away."

"I don't believe this. _Now_ what am I supposed to do?"

Hutch smiled gently, knowing he had to tread carefully here. "Starsk, I'll get it cleaned for you. It'll be good as new. Honest!"

Starsky straightened, still muttering under his breath.

"Don't be such a grouch. I told you I'd clean it for you, and I will."

More grumbling. Starsky folded his arms petulantly across his chest, realizing too late that all he'd managed to do was transfer some of the grease onto the royal blue shirt Hutch had bought him for Christmas. Starsky stared down at the shirt in seemingly utter dismay, then looked up wide-eyed at Hutch, his "little boy in trouble" expression plastered firmly on his face.

Holding out his hand, Hutch said firmly, exasperated, "Take it off and give it to me. You're going to spread it all around the inside of the car at this rate."

Starsky paused with one arm out of his jacket sleeve, clearly resistant to Hutch's "command voice."

"And that's gonna affect the looks of this car . . . how, exactly?"

"It's a loaner, Starsk. As in 'not mine.' And maybe you want to spend the rest of the night wallowing around in grease, but it's not exactly my thing."

Starsky merely grunted in response.

Hutch thrust out his hand again. "Take it off, Starsk, all of it."

Something of his concealed innermost feelings must have materialized in either voice or demeanor, because Starsky froze, his eyes widening and his breath catching in an audible gasp.

Hutch cursed both his pale skin and his unfortunate tendency to blush, but hoped that the relative darkness of their surroundings—and the fact that he was backlit by what little light existed—would hide much of his reaction. He tried for an exasperated sigh. "Starsky, you've got grease on your shirt, and you have to take the holster off to remove the shirt, so take . . . it . . . all . . . off," he explained patiently.

"Oh."

Hutch couldn't tell whether the voice held embarrassment or disappointment, but he firmly clamped down on the tendency to read his own feelings into Starsky's behavior. The man _had_ downed a few beers before Hutch had dragged him unceremoniously away from his private evening. It was bound to affect his partner's reactions just a little.

It had better. Hutch was counting on it.

Starsky finished removing the jacket without further complaint, handing it to Hutch, who started to toss it unceremoniously into the backseat.

"Hutch," Starsky said with a hint of warning in his voice.

Hutch turned to face his partner, crumpled jacket in hand, and raised a querying eyebrow. He didn't need the bright light of day to perceive Starsky's displeasure. He could almost _feel_ the glare radiating from the hooded eyes.

Sighing dramatically, Hutch precisely folded the jacket into a neat square and placed it on the backseat. He eyed it significantly for a few seconds, tilting his head to one side, then shifted the jacket's placement on the seat slightly. Humming softly, he pretended to fluff the jacket like a four-star hotel's pillow and gave it a final gentle pat.

Starsky muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "smartass," but unbuckled his holster and handed it to Hutch as well.

Hutch removed the 9 mm, automatically checked to make sure the safety was on, then placed the gun carefully on the dashboard within Starsky's reach. He placed the holster on top of the jacket in the backseat.

He looked up to see Starsky watching him, one hand on his topmost button and one eyebrow in his hair.

Hutch shrugged. "It's not like you'll be walking around in just a holster and nothing else, Starsk." Blushing again at the picture _that_ phrase evoked, Hutch said, "You're not going to need the holster back, Starsky. Just get on with it."

One button popped through a buttonhole, and Hutch found he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I'm gonna look real silly chasin' a perp bare-chested with a gun in my hand," Starsky said.

"It's not like we haven't it done it before, buddy."

Starsky looked up, a lopsided grin on his face. "Yeah, but usually you let me keep my holster."

Hutch stiffened, in more ways than one. He wasn't sure if it was the almost timid smile on Starsky's face or those three little words, "you let me," but Hutch had to tap into a lifetime of self-discipline to keep his voice normal. It wasn't often that the self-assured, assertive David Michael Starsky would meekly submit himself to Hutch's direction, but it had _never_ affected him like this before.

"Starsk, this place is more desolate than Simonetti's social calendar. I doubt very seriously if either one of us is going to be chasing anything more violent than a breeze tonight."

Starsky gave him another half-smile through lowered eyes. "Yeah, good thing, too, considerin' I'm the one who's gonna be half-naked here."

Hutch barely stifled the jolt _that_ comment sent through him. Entranced, he watched as Starsky slowly undid the buttons on his shirt, his fingers a little clumsier than usual with the lateness of the hour and his interrupted bout of social drinking. Starsky finally released the last button and leaned forward, trying to untangle the tight sleeves of his shirt in the close confines of the car without smearing more grease over himself in the process.

"Oh, come here, Starsk," Hutch finally said when Starsky looked like he was about to tie himself into a knot.

Starsky paused and looked over his shoulder at Hutch, then meekly squirmed around in the seat until his back and both pinioned arms were accessible to Hutch.

As he worked to free Starsky's arms, Hutch grumbled almost to himself, "I oughta just leave you tied up here, and then maybe we'd _both_ get some peace tonight."

He wasn't expecting a reaction from Starsky. Well, at least not at this point in the proceedings, anyway. Hutch had intended the comment to be merely part of their usual banter, but a reaction from his partner he most certainly got. Starsky froze again and then shuddered . . . a deep, pulsing tremor that ran almost the whole length of his body.

Hutch froze, too. And somewhere deep inside, a heat and corresponding euphoria emerged. Maybe, just maybe, Starsky wouldn't lay him out on the ground . . . or worse, after tonight, demand another partner. He wasn't sure what Starsky's reaction meant exactly—whether it was desire, or trepidation, or God forbid, even outright fear—but he'd handle that as it came. Having Starsky respond to him in that manner gave Hutch the confidence to believe he might actually pull this off.

Rubbing a small circle on the warm wrist inside the sleeve he had been trying to disentangle, Hutch whispered, "You cold, babe?"  He heard his voice drop into the register he unconsciously reserved for seduction, but he didn't care. Hutch had a feeling he'd need _all_ the weapons in his arsenal tonight.

Another tremor.

"N-no," Starsky replied.

Hutch saw his shoulders stiffen slightly and recognized the maneuver as one of Starsky's last-ditch efforts at regaining control in a difficult situation. Sometimes there _were_ benefits to knowing your partner's body language better than your own.

In any case, he couldn't allow it to happen. Not when he'd planned this evening so carefully to make sure Starsky would be open to him . . . and very much _not_ the one in control.

Hutch leaned closer over Starsky's back—ostensibly to get better access to his right arm—and reached his free hand down to Starsky's right buttock, lifting him slightly and shifting him further around in the seat.  He accomplished the move without as much as a grunt, underscoring the strength required to perform such a maneuver. Hutch wasn't in a hurry to remove the hand still lodged under Starsky's butt either, waiting until his partner shifted uncomfortably before he freed it. 

Starsky shivered, and Hutch circled his left thumb over the same spot on the wrist again, calming. "You sure?" he whispered almost directly in Starsky's ear.

"Wh . . . what?" His partner made an almost involuntary move away from the tickling breath in his ear, but Hutch still held him by his trapped arms and reeled him back in.

"You sure you're not cold?" Hutch reiterated. He slipped his other hand up Starsky's right sleeve and stroked gently. “You’re trembling."

Starsky swallowed convulsively, and Hutch watched over his shoulder as the prominent Adam's apple bobbed. "Hutch, we're gonna look real foolish in the police report if we're shot by some creep while I've still got both arms trapped in my stupid shirt."

Hutch chuckled, still pressed against Starsky's back. "There are worse ways to go."

Starsky squirmed uncomfortably in his hold, and Hutch smiled inwardly, recognizing _that_ particular sign of agitation from the drive over.

"Hutch?" The voice sounded hesitant . . . and maybe even a little scared.

"Hmmm?"

"Lemme go?"

Hutch complied, but not immediately, recognizing Starsky's plea as the bewildered question it was rather than a demand. He therefore took his time, making sure he touched as much bare skin as possible before finally removing the grease-stained shirt from Starsky's arms.

Folding the shirt as carefully as he had the previous items, Hutch turned from placing it on the backseat to find Starsky staring straight ahead, his hands continuously rubbing his bare arms. Hutch risked a quick glance down and found to his relief that Starsky was still sporting the same "problem" he had on the trip over. For his part, he was very happy he'd remembered to wear the loosest-fitting cords he owned. No sense in giving up the advantage at this point.

Starsky glanced over at him with an endearingly flustered and shaken look on his face.

Hutch knew he was thoroughly confusing his partner—they had an unspoken agreement _not_ to bring their sexual relationship into the workplace—but he had Starsky off-balance now, and it was time to tip him over the edge. With any luck, that adorable look of uncertainty was more related to the consequences of having sex with his male partner in a parking lot rather than the best way to hide Hutch's body.

Well, he was about to find out, one way or the other. He already knew Starsky wasn't accustomed to being actively pursued by someone stronger than he . . . especially not when he thought they were still on duty. His mule-headed partner picked some of the worst times to actually worry about propriety and protocol.

Hutch stared pointedly at Starsky's lap.

Starsky gave him what looked suspiciously like a nervous glance and tried to cover his groin with his hands.

"_That's_ gotta be painful," Hutch said helpfully.

Starsky twitched. "Huh?" He looked at Hutch as if he thought he'd just stepped out of the Twilight Zone.

"You know . . ." Hutch pointed his chin in the general direction of Starsky's groin. 

When his partner still stared at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Hutch used one hand to gently nudge Starsky's jaw closed, then calmly indicated the problem in question by tapping lightly at the juncture of Starsky's upper thigh and groin with a fingertip.

Starsky leapt sideways so fast he would have fallen out the door had it been open. As it was, the entire car shook with the force of the collision.

Of course, all his obviously bewildered partner _really_ accomplished was to get both bare arms covered in "Mighty Marvin's Lube-all Axle Grease."

Starsky, being Starsky, then said the one thing Hutch had not envisioned in any of his multitude of "What If" scenarios.

"God help me," Starsky said, still plastered to the doorframe. "My partner's been taken over by aliens."

Hutch couldn't help it. He laughed. He laughed until he had tears pouring from his eyes.

_Well now, Hutchinson, how are you going to field that one?_

He wiped at his streaming eyes. "Starsk, come here."

Starsky's eyes went wide and he shook his head, looking a little frantic.

"Starsky." Firmer now. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Come here and let me clean you up."

"Huh?" Starsky glanced down at his groin in what appeared to be escalating confusion.

"No, not _there_, mushbrain."

"Wha . . . ?"

Hutch decided he sort of liked Monosyllabic Starsky. It was a refreshing change. "Starsk, the prohibition against painting the interior of this car with grease still remains in effect." Hutch reached to his left side and pulled a clean white cloth from the door pocket. He held up the square of pristine white material and turned it meticulously several times. "See, nothing mind-altering or body-hijacking here."

Starsky alternated wary glances between Hutch and the cloth.

"Starsk," Hutch said. "It's 'who do you trust time' here." He kept his voice low and soft. "You know I'd never willingly hurt you, don't you, buddy?" He let his eyes do a little pleading of their own. Hutch really didn't want to lose this opportunity—heaven knew when he'd ever have a better one.

Or if he'd ever have the nerve to try this again.

Hutch concentrated on keeping his face open, a small smile fixed on his face. Trust Starsky to face down an entire room full of armed felons alone, but let one small doubt creep in about Hutch—his life's cornerstone—and the tough, streetwise cop became a totally different person. He transformed instantly into a conglomerate of contradictions—needy and detached, frightened and determined—a lost soul amidst a host of personal demons.

It was scary holding that kind of power over his almost indomitable partner. And it terrified Hutch to glimpse exactly what that power could do.

Firming his resolve nonetheless, Hutch cocked his head entreatingly at his partner.

Starsky stared at Hutch, faith in the rightness of his world announcing itself through the slow clearing of his matchless eyes, and he gradually released his death grip on the doorframe. He looked down at his arms, grimacing.

Hutch smiled at his partner's reaction to finding himself, once again, coated in copious quantities of black grease. He fluttered the white cloth invitingly.

Evidently catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, Starsky looked up abruptly and laughed softly. "You look like one of those bull-fightin' guys."

"Matador, Starsk." Hutch laughed. "Well, I guess that's better than a space alien." Smiling his most beatific grin, Hutch added, "Next time I'll make sure I'm carrying a _red_ cloth. Now, get over here, you nut."

Starsky lowered his eyes again but did as he was told, sliding over and holding out his right arm.

Hutch grasped Starsky's wrist, lifting the arm so he could dab at the black smears on the elbow and forearm. "I bet you drove your mother crazy," he said, releasing the arm and turning the cloth over.

Smiling broadly, Starsky said, "Let's just say me and dirt were very well acquainted."

"Why am I not surprised? Give me your left arm."

Hutch very carefully positioned his hand on Starsky's left wrist as he worked on removing the grease marks on the arm. He didn't hurry. When he felt his partner was relaxed enough, he gently moved the thumb of his hand over Starsky's left wrist in the same soothing, circular motion he had used earlier. Holding his breath, he waited for the reaction.

Starsky gasped, jerking his arm as if he'd just suffered an electrical shock.

Hutch held onto the wrist, firmly but gently, resigning himself to releasing his partner if it came to that, but praying that it wouldn't. "Starsk, easy now," he said, hoping that the thin skin over the smaller wrist was as much an erogenous zone for Starsky as it was for him. If so, he knew with Starsky's hair-trigger sexual responses that it wouldn't take him long to react to the stimulation.

It didn't.

Hutch watched as Starsky's wide eyes perceptibly softened. He moaned softly, his clenched fist relaxing in Hutch's grip.

Smiling, Hutch kept up the gentle motion as he coaxed Starsky to lean back in his seat with the other hand. Reaching over his partner's lap, he released the seat-back lever on Starsky's side, lowering him nearly horizontal. Yet another reason for choosing this particular vehicle.

"Hutch!" Starsky protested the position, making a move to sit up.

"Hmmm?" Hutch said, not actually restraining his partner, but not ceasing the slow, teasing motion of his thumb.

Starsky shuddered, lifting entreating eyes. "What are you tryin' to do to me?" he asked, his voice soft.

Hutch could almost see the conflict in Starsky's eyes, his partner's ingrained sense of responsibility no doubt warring with the desire to yield to Hutch's machinations.

Responsibility apparently won. Starsky shook his head abruptly and made another move to get up. "Hutch! The stakeout, remember? We're supposed to be on duty here, partner."

"Starsk, nothing's been moving around here for over a week. Even the cockroaches have probably died of boredom by now." Hutch could sense another protest coming, so he tapped his partner gently on the forehead. "Besides," he said, pointing at Starsky's impressive erection, "I doubt if you'll be chasing much of anything with _that_ thing in your pants."

Starsky smiled, looking enchantingly shy. "I doubt I'd get out of the _car_ with that thing in my pants, but . . ."

"In any case," Hutch interrupted, now enjoying himself immensely, "I'm going to sit right here and keep watch on the warehouse. _You'll_ be the one doing all the work." He released Starsky's wrist.

"What?" Starsky tried to sit up again, and this time he was pushed purposefully down.

Hutch grinned. "You've been sporting that 'problem' of yours all night, Starsk. I'm sure you know how to take care of it." He grinned wickedly again. "You're a big boy."

There was definite anger in Starsky's voice now. "Hutchinson, if you think . . ."

Hutch lowered the back on his own seat so he'd have better access to his partner. Leaning over, he gripped Starsky's chin and looked deep into the over-bright eyes so Starsky would know exactly how serious he was. "Starsk, maybe I'm bored, maybe I simply like the idea of watching you jerk off . . . or maybe I just _need_ you to do this for me.  Just this once." When Starsky continued to stare up at him with a doubtful expression, Hutch closed his eyes and sighed. “You're going to have to trust me on this one."

"I _do_ trust you."

Hutch's eyes flew open, and he gave the chin a firm shake. “No. You trust me to protect you on the job, you trust me to hold you when you're hurting, you trust me with your life, but you don't trust me with your happiness. Damn it, stop fighting me, Starsk. Stop fighting yourself."  Hutch let his voice drop an octave.  "I _know_ what you need—what you won't even admit to yourself—and I'm the one who can give it to you."

Hutch watched the flush spread across his partner's face.

"Hutch, I can't . . ."

"Yes, you can," Hutch said forcibly. "Because if you're _this_ reluctant to even bring yourself off in front of me, I'm not sure why we're bothering to continue this kind of relationship."

Hutch knew he was being a little unfair, that not everyone was comfortable with such an exhibitionist display, but what Hutch had said was true to some extent. Starsky was more comfortable with his own body than any man he knew, and if he couldn't make it over that first barrier, couldn’t relinquish control to Hutch in this, he doubted Starsky could ever contemplate a serious long-term relationship with him.

Starsky blinked, swallowing hard, but he nodded once, firmly.

Hutch smiled at him in sincere gratitude. Releasing Starsky's chin and grasping his left hand, Hutch stroked the sweet spot on his wrist again, loving the way his partner's face melted with that minuscule contact. "Just remember, buddy boy, _this_ is the only place I'm going to touch you tonight. _This_ is all of me you're going to get. The rest is up to you."

Hutch sat upright and released the wrist, not wanting to intimidate Starsky by looming over him. When he looked down, he saw Starsky was staring at him beseechingly, his right hand clamped over his left wrist as if trying to recapture that fleeting sensation.

"Hutch, I don't know how to . . ."

Taking pity on his partner, Hutch decided against teasing him further.

He smiled gently. "I don't know about you, but the first thing _I'd_ probably do is take off my pants. That usually facilitates things, you know."

Hutch came to the delighted conclusion that he'd probably never tire of the genuine-article Starsky blush.

"Damn it, Hutch! We're in the middle of a . . . a parking lot, for heaven's sake!"

"Glad to know the alcohol hasn't affected your detective skills. Just relax, will you? Unless you're worried about the possibility of some Peeping Tom squirrel, there isn't _anything_ else around."

Starsky simply stared at him doubtfully.

"Starsky, if someone _should_ happen to come by, I'll tell them I'm a cop who's just rousted a naked drunk." He smiled ruefully. "Which isn't too far off the mark, come to think of it."

That comment earned Hutch a glare.

"Go on, Starsk. It's not like I haven't seen it before."

"But this . . . this is . . . _different_!"

Hutch inclined his head, then nodded it once, all playfulness erased from his voice. "Yes. It is."

The dark eyes widened further as Hutch's words sank in.

Then his impossibly brave and perpetually impulsive partner took a deep breath . . . and quite deliberately unbuttoned the first barrier of his jeans.

Hutch released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, feeling the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders . . . like he could suddenly raise his arms and fly.

Starsky toed off his sneakers, then very carefully unzipped the fly of his jeans, glancing over quickly as if to make sure his partner was still watching.

Hutch smiled. "Go on, Starsk. You're doing fine."

Another deep breath, and Starsky lifted his rear long enough to slide the tight jeans down his legs. He kicked them into a pile on the surprisingly clean floorboard. He was not, of course, wearing underwear.

Starsky's erection had withered somewhat with the unveiling, no doubt a little shy at being the center of attention in such an unprecedented fashion. Sighing, Starsky reached for the fading erection, his determined expression more suited to the storming of the Bastille than masturbation.

"Hey, whoa there, partner."

Starsky looked up quickly just before his hand reached its destination. "Huh?"

Hutch looked down at him with his best forbidding expression. "No wonder you have a different girl every week, Starsk, if that's your idea of foreplay. I doubt your lady friends are very impressed."

_That_ brought the fire back into Starsky's captivating eyes.

"Hutch," his obviously furious partner stated clearly, "I am _not_ tryin' to impress a . . ."

Hutch dipped his head slightly and raised both eyebrows.

There was a brief pause.

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh,'" Hutch agreed, smiling.

When Starsky dropped his eyes yet again, Hutch leaned down over his still undeniably anxious partner. "Starsk, listen to me. I don't want to watch you jerk off." He dropped his voice into a caress, resisting the almost unbearable urge to reach out physically. "I want to watch you make love to yourself.  I want to see you touch every spot that makes you writhe in pleasure, I want to hear your breath come faster, I want to see your chest heave. I want to hear you make all those helpless sounds I heard through your apartment door. I want you to tease yourself until you don't think you can stand it any longer, then pull back from the edge and start over. I don't want you to come until I say you can. _That's_ what I want from you, babe."

Starsky closed his eyes as if in pain, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Jeez, Hutch," he finally managed. "We could probably skip that foreplay bit all together, couldn't we?"

"We could," he whispered. "But I don't want to."

Starsky's nostrils flared, sweat beginning to break out on his forehead.

Hutch noticed that his partner's erection had once again made an enthusiastic appearance, and he smiled at Starsky encouragingly. "Go on, Starsk, make love to yourself . . . for me."

Starsky's left hand slowly rose, trembling, until it touched the top of his chest. Hutch straightened up and out of his partner's way, more than content to merely watch.

For now, anyway.

Starsky's hand moved to his collarbone, caressing its contours with the pads of two fingers before gliding up to his neck. He brushed the pulse point of his carotid with a feather-light touch, over and over, skimming from there to his Adam's apple and back again.

He glanced up at Hutch, looking nervous and unsure, and Hutch gave him a contented smile in return.

The fingers traced along his neck, his hand flattening as it journeyed down the center of his chest. Starsky avoided his nipples, merely running his hand enticingly through his coarse chest hair and down to the flat plane of his stomach, rubbing small circles in a quite unconscious imitation of Hutch's earlier actions on his wrist.

Starsky's cock lengthened at the close proximity of the stroking hand, but his partner dutifully avoided it, approaching and retreating, a small, needy moan escaping his parted lips.

Hutch shivered in response. He loved the sound of his partner's voice, Brooklyn accent and all, but this . . . this was sweeter than he'd ever imagined. He was tempted to shut his eyes and just savor the sounds alone, but he couldn't force his eyes to close. No, they had their own agenda now.

The hand dove upward again, the fingers spreading wide to cover more of the upper chest, skirting again the small nubs, which were themselves now rock hard. Starsky moved his hand to his ribs, brushing lightly, then back to his chest, two fingers of one hand slowly circling one nipple in a dance more erotic than any stripper Hutch had ever seen.

The fingers brushed the areola, then retreated, making the same deliberate promenade around the other nub but never quite touching either. The fingers trembled, almost nudging the impatient nipples against his partner's best intentions.

Starsky was making little gasping sounds now, as if he couldn't quite force enough air into his lungs. He looked up at Hutch, pleading apparent in his eyes.

Hutch smiled around his own arousal, glad to know the silent communication still functioned, even in this. Especially in this. "Are your nipples sensitive, Starsk? Do you want to stroke them, knead them, feel them hard and aching for your touch?"

A short, imperative nod.

"I don't know, Starsk. You look pretty close to the edge already, and you've just started.  Can you handle that, babe, without coming? Can you?"

Starsky writhed, his fingers not ceasing their travels over his chest.  "Hutch . . . please!"

Hutch smiled, enjoying the control he had over his passionate partner. "I can smell your arousal, Starsk. Do you have any idea how much that turns me on? Do you?" He leaned over slightly, saying huskily, "Every time you'd get yourself worked up over some chick or the other, I'd have to force myself not to stand next to you, not to hover, not to inhale that lovely, addictive musk that's aroused Starsky."

Whimpering softly, Starsky turned bright, unfocused eyes to his partner.

"Run one hand over your stomach again, Starsk. I want to see the skin quiver, I want to watch your cock twitch, knowing you're not allowed to touch it anytime soon."

Starsky moaned again, his hips rising almost of their own volition off the seat. "Damn it, Hutch," he gasped. "Don't do this to me, please."

"Do what, babe?" Hutch asked innocently, drinking in the sight of Starsky's left hand caressing the skin of his vulnerable stomach. "Lighter touch, Starsk. Just skim your fingers until you can barely feel it. Until it's so hypersensitive even the movement of my breath will cause it to quiver."

Starsky obeyed, his eyes never leaving Hutch's face, the skin of his stomach twitching hard enough to dislodge the beads of perspiration attempting to shelter there.

Hutch felt sweat break out across his own body then, but he refused to take off his jacket. Removing just that one item of clothing would likely lead to an avalanche of other items removed, and Hutch had sworn he was not going to inflict that on Starsky tonight.

The fingers of Starsky's right hand were still slowly circling a nipple, sweat running on his chest, the dark ringlets of hair beginning to adhere to his forehead.

Hutch leaned over his partner's stomach, not close enough to taste, but close enough to inhale the sweet aroma of Starsky's scent. "Touch your nipples, Starsky, touch 'em."

As the fingers of both Starsky's hands latched onto his hardened buds and squeezed, Hutch blew gently across his partner's stomach, delighting in the helpless, strangled half-shout that Starsky emitted, his hips rising again, his cock straining toward the ethereal contact of Hutch's breath.

Starsky forced his hips back down, panting as if he'd just run a marathon, eyes wild and unfocused. "Damn it, Hutch, damn it, damn it, damn it," he whispered almost like a mantra, hands clamped onto the sides of his seat, struggling valiantly to rein himself in before it was too late.

"That's it, Starsk," Hutch whispered. "So close, so close already, aren't you, babe?" Hutch braced one hand on the passenger side door—carefully avoiding the grease—and leaned down over Starsky's stomach again.

"Hutch! No. I'll come, damn it, I'll come! Hutch!"

His poor Starsky, frantic, knowing how much that would disappoint his partner, desperate, pleading, writhing.

"Touch yourself, Starsk. Touch your nipples again," Hutch coaxed, turning his face to carefully avoid Starsky's faintly pulsing cock.

"N-no, Hutch. _Damn_ you. Not without . . . I can't!"

Hutch shifted to hover over Starsky's face. "Yes, you can. I want to watch your face. I want to hear you cry out as you struggle not to let go before I allow it." Hutch licked his lips and watched Starsky's corresponding shudder.  "Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are . . . so exposed and helpless?" He let his gaze wander over Starsky's naked form, caressing with his eyes.

Gasping, Starsky's lips moved in a silent plea.

"You wouldn't do this for anyone but me, would you, Starsk? You wouldn't let down those formidable barriers to your body and your soul. You'd never allow yourself to be this vulnerable for anybody else."

He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing Starsky's ear, and he fought the urge to lap at the delicate skin with his tongue. He breathed softly into the ear instead, enjoying Starsky's resultant shiver, and whispered, "Only for me, Starsk, only me."

Hutch stopped when he realized how his longstanding possessiveness was abruptly freeing itself from his tight constraints. He couldn't afford that . . . didn't want to frighten Starsky away at this point. "Go on, babe. Touch yourself for me."

Starsky's hand moved jerkily toward his chest. Locking eyes with Hutch, he caught his lower lip between his teeth in an unconsciously endearing gesture that swelled Hutch's heart. Such determination, such faith.  It was almost more than Hutch could handle—to find himself the object of that kind of unconditional devotion from someone he loved so dearly.

Hutch moved to hover over Starsky's groin again but was stopped by an iron-clad grip on his shoulder. The hand restraining him was shaking—how it was shaking—but Hutch realized anew that it never paid to underestimate his partner's formidable strength.

"No, Hutch, if I see you there, I'll come. I . . . I won't be able to help it. I won't!" The midnight blue eyes closed briefly, then pleaded for all they were worth. "Please, Hutch, _please_." The hand on Hutch's shoulder quivered.

Smiling shakily, still not believing his impossible good fortune, Hutch finally said, "'Kay, partner. Your call."

Starsky smiled one of his lopsided grins in silent gratitude, his drenched curls attempting to intrude over half-lidded eyes.

Hutch had to physically restrain himself from patting the unruly hair back in its place, and an almost overwhelming wave of tenderness washed across him.

Starsky's right hand moved toward his nipple again, his breath coming in visibly escalating gasps like a long-distance athlete long past the end of his endurance. The fingers reached their intended target and Starsky froze, grunting, his eyes rolling back in his head as he tried desperately to master his body's reactions. His hips made uncontrolled little jerking motions as Starsky continued to knead the hard nub.

The thrusts of Starsky's hips became more pronounced as he started to lose control . . . his head back, eyes closed, the grunts rising into the helpless gasps Hutch had heard last through a closed apartment door. So passionate, so responsive, his partner, with so little direct stimulation.

When Starsky's left hand moved unconsciously towards his now-weeping cock, Hutch knew it was time to slow things down a bit. He leaned over Starsky's face again, loving the closed eyes and slack features of blissful intensity on his partner's features.

"Starsky," he said firmly. "Stop."

He said that last word with the voice Starsky had heard many times before—the voice he used to protect Starsky from impending harm. The voice he used when a moment's hesitation on Starsky's part would mean disaster. The voice he used when he wanted—and needed—his partner's instant and unconditional compliance.

Starsky's eyes flew open . . . and he froze, his hand inches away from the still-twitching cock.

Hutch smiled down at him, lingering, letting his partner know through his eyes how much he cherished Starsky's obedience.

Lips quivering, breath coming in tortured pants, Starsky waited, his eyes blinking furiously.

"Oh, babe," Hutch murmured. "It's okay. I _am_ going to let you come. I promise." Hutch again resisted the urge to brush the hair from Starsky's eyes or kiss away that thin line of wetness trailing from one eye.

Starsky shifted uncomfortably, bringing a fond smile to Hutch's lips.

"Touch yourself, Starsk." When he saw the blue eyes widen in frank disbelief, Hutch chuckled. "I don't want to kill you, Starsk. I gotta save _some_ of you for later, you know." He whispered conspiratorially, "Don't want to damage that delicate constitution of yours."

Starsky evidently couldn't find the breath to form words anymore, but the left hand wavered and the middle finger rose in a quite unmistakable gesture.

Hutch laughed. "Later for that part, Starsk, later." Hutch was pleased to encounter, yet again, the irrepressible heat advancing across his partner's already flushed features. "You're beautiful, Starsk, you know that?"

A slight shake of Starsky's head, then a brief pause and a tentative raising of one shoulder in a shrug.

Hutch laughed again. "Modesty becomes you, babe." He let his voice drop an octave, all business now. "Touch yourself. Now."

Starsky swallowed, his jaw working minutely in an obvious bid for self-control as his hand approached his straining erection.

"You're not allowed to come," Hutch warned.

The blue eyes closed as the hand wrapped itself around his cock, and Starsky grunted, trying desperately to ride out the waves of pleasure flowing through his body.

"Feels good, huh, buddy?" Hutch smiled at the death grip Starsky maintained on his cock—almost as if he were restraining a suspect resisting arrest rather than trying to give himself pleasure. "Relax. You can move your hand a little, can't you?"

Vehement shaking of the curly head.

Hutch sighed. "Starsk, open your eyes."

One blue eye opened a crack, squinting warily at Hutch in the subdued lighting.

Hutch smiled at him encouragingly. "Come on, buddy. Show me how you like to be touched."

An imperious finger from Starsky's right hand jabbed at Hutch's chest.

Hutch sighed. "Starsky, I know darn well you don't _normally_ go non-vocal during sex. So speak up."

More compulsive swallowing and lowered eyes, but Starsky finally managed, "You. I want you to do it." He paused, then looked up into Hutch's eyes.

Hutch resisted the temptation to give into his dark-haired imp. "No, Starsk," he said firmly.

"But . . ."

"No buts. You're going to do it this time."

"Aw, Hutch . . ."

Hutch reached out and wrapped his hand around Starsky's left wrist, which was still holding his unrepentant cock in a death grip.

Starsky's arm jolted, unintentionally moving his hand on his erection, and he stiffened, moaning loudly.

"See," Hutch whispered. "I told you that you could do it." Hutch moved his fingers softly against the thin skin of Starsky's wrist, encouraging movement of his partner's hand.

Starsky's breath quickened yet again, but he obeyed the silent command, moving his palm in firm strokes down the length of his cock, his hips moving in perfect counterpoint.

Hutch didn't release the hand, enjoying the feeling of his fingers against Starsky's groin and belly . . . going along for the ride. He said softly, "I'll tell you something though."

His partner grunted softly in reply, his fingers rubbing the tip of his cock and picking up the fluid leaking there. Starsky gasped, and Hutch fought back the temptation to feel for himself the slick silkiness of the crown.

"I'll tell you where our next encounter is going to be."

Starsky froze briefly, then resumed his careful stroking, panting, his bleary, impassioned eyes attempting to focus without much success on Hutch's face.

Hutch smiled. "It's gonna be in Dobey's office."

Starsky squeaked, his right hand flailing, finally managing to latch onto Hutch's shoulder.

"Keep going, Starsk. Don't stop."

Starsky obeyed, but shakily, his eyes an open appeal for common sense.

"You want me to tell you what's going to happen . . . or do you want me to leave it a surprise?"

A very emphatic shaking of Starsky's head at the last part.

Hutch leaned down close over his partner's ear. "You sure, Starsk?"

"Ah-huh." The wide eyes were nearly all pupil now.

Irresolute and scared . . . perfect.

"We're gonna be in Dobey's office, having an argument with some stuffed-shirt, upper management bureaucrat who wants us to do something ill-conceived, ill-planned and likely deleterious to our collective health."

Starsky nodded shakily. That was easy enough for him to follow, as it seemed to happen to them on an all-too-regular basis.

Hutch continued, "You're going to do what you usually do when you're fed up enough—that is, stick your face, and possibly your fist, into the stuffed shirt's personal space."

Another nod, and a slight upturning of one side of his mouth. Also, business as usual.

Hutch let his voice drop again. "Then I'm going to come up behind you, pull you away and grab your left wrist to restrain you. Like this . . ." Hutch indicated his thumb, still tracing small circles as he followed Starsky's moving hand.

Starsky gasped, his eyes going impossibly wider.

". . . And you're going to freeze up, just like now. And as I continue to stroke your wrist, you're going to break into a sweat, and tremble, and your knees are going to suddenly feel like they won't hold you up." Hutch moved closer until his lips were almost touching Starsky's. "And as I press tighter against your exquisite backside to brace you, I'm going to give you a little nudge with my groin when no one else can see, and you're going to get instantly, devastatingly, irreversibly . . . hard."

Starsky's hips thrust immediately from the car seat, his lips parted, and he emitted a deep keening followed quickly by a nearly strangled, "Hutch!"

Hutch released Starsky's left wrist and grabbed his right, which was still locked in an unyielding grip on Hutch's jacket. He looked down. "I didn't say you could stop, Starsk."

"Please, Hutch, you can't . . ."

"Yes, I can. Now, get a move on." Hutch looked down into Starsky's eyes and relented somewhat. "Soon. I'm going to let you come soon. Just a little longer, babe."

Starsky groaned loudly as his hand resumed its insistent stroking. His body was dripping with sweat and in a constant state of motion, as if funneling his energy into movement would help him clamp down on his unstoppable one-way trip to orgasm. Starsky looked so near the edge it amazed Hutch he could keep from tumbling off the precipice.

"Starsk. In Dobey's office—do you want to know how I'm going to get you off?"

Starsky's reply was almost intelligible. "Oh, God, Hutch, oh, God . . ."

"I'm going to flip you around in my arms to hide that impressive erection in those skintight jeans you love so much. I'm gonna tell Dobey you're sick and that I need to take you home. It won't be difficult to convince anyone of that, Starsk. You'll be soaked in sweat, your face the color of the Torino, and you'll be shivering so bad you'll look like you're at death's door."

Hutch stroked Starsky's wrist, watching the almost pained looked on his partner's face. "Are you hearing me, buddy? I'll have to move fast, because you'll have your face buried tight against my neck, and you'll be fighting so hard not to thrust your aching erection into my warm thigh that you're going to make those pitiful moaning sounds deep in your throat." Hutch chuckled. "Yeah, like that, babe, just like that."

Starsky's left hand was moving even quicker now, striving mindlessly for release.

"I'm going to hold you even tighter as I'm talking to Dobey, and when I feel your hips starting to make those little helpless twitches, I'll know I need to get you out of there in a hurry."

Starsky wasn't even looking at him now, his world apparently narrowed to the sensations in his groin and the sound of Hutch's voice.

"It's gonna be tough hiding this thing from prying eyes, babe—you fill those jeans so right—but I'm going to walk down that hallway with an armful of aching Starsky. We'll have to stop several times 'cause those well-worn, soft-as-silk jeans are going to rub you in all the right places, and I'll know you'll cream those pants right in front of God and everyone if we don't."

Starsky shuddered so hard that Hutch almost lost the grip on his wrist.

"I'm gonna keep touching you, Starsk, keep stroking your trembling wrist. And you're going to remember this night. You'll remember the overpowering, helpless arousal I brought you to so very easily." Hutch laid his free hand on the side of Starsky's face, demanding his attention.  "And the next time I see you eyeing some woman, I'm gonna take your wrist, stroke it like this, and you won't be able to think of anything but me and how long I kept you balanced on the precipice. Anytime, anywhere, Starsk, I can do this to you, and you won't be able to help yourself."

Another near-delirious moan. "Hutch, please . . . ?"

"Not yet, baby, not yet. Hold on for me, Starsk. We're almost there." Hutch would have liked to prolong this further, but Starsky had been on the edge for so long it was undoubtedly bordering on pain. "We're not going to make it home, Starsk, we're not even going to make it to the car. I'll notice that you just can't take anymore, and I'll pull you into the basement broom closet and shut the door. I'll pull you hard against me, and you'll have both hands fisted into the front of my shirt. You're going to look up at me with those big blue eyes and silently beg me to let you come."

Starsky cried out, stopping the pumping motion with his left hand with a desperate stranglehold at the base of his cock as he fought back his orgasm. 

Hutch lost his grip on Starsky's suddenly flailing right arm and found he was gasping himself. Hell, he wasn't sure how much more of this _he'd_ be able to handle. It was one thing conjuring up a fantasy of doing this to Starsky, but it was quite another to watch the beloved face caught headlong in the throes of that fantasy, those pleading eyes looking beseechingly into his own. He was going to lose it himself, just by watching his beautiful partner.

His voice husky now, Hutch continued, "I'm going to nod once, and at first you won't believe me. Won't believe you'll be allowed to relieve that awful pressure, but I'll take that wrist in my hand again while it's still fisted in shirt, and I'm going to rub it gently, just like this."

Starsky's eyes were wide open, not blinking, glancing almost involuntarily at his right hand, which Hutch had again captured in his.

"You're going to start thrusting against my leg then, slowly at first, both of us still fully clothed." Hutch placed Starsky's left hand back on his cock, encouraging him to continue. "You're going to moan, brokenly, and then look up at me, just to make sure I'm not going to make you stop."

Hutch captured those blue eyes with his and wouldn't let them go.  He could feel the almost savage motions of Starsky's left hand just from the movement of the car seat. "But you'd stop, wouldn't you, if I told you to? If I just wanted to hold you tight, kiss you and feel you shaking in my arms? Or maybe I'd kneel down, mouth you through those paper-thin jeans, lick on you until you could barely stand, then crush you against me full length again, knowing you wouldn't come until I allowed it. You'd stop yourself . . . for me, and I'd know you were completely and utterly mine." Hutch paused. "You _know_ you belong to me now, don't you, Starsk?"

Nodding his head, Starsky moaned, and the sound seemed to resonate somewhere deep inside Hutch.

"It's okay. I'm not gonna make you stop. Not this time. You're so close, so very close, aren't you, babe?"

"Hutch . . ."

The single word was an undeniable plea, and Hutch knew he couldn't delay any longer.

"You're going to thrust against my thigh, Starsk, faster and faster, and when you've just about reached the pinnacle, when you're sure you can't take any more, you're going to beg me with those lovely blue eyes, and I'm gonna say . . ." Hutch leaned close, so close his lips were nearly touching those of the now constantly whimpering Starsky. ". . . 'Come for me, baby.'"

Starsky stiffened, his face momentarily losing all expression, then his eyes rolled up and he moaned loudly, brokenly, a long, savage release that somehow included Hutch's name.

Hutch smiled, watching with absolute, unbridled joy the vision that was post-orgasmic Starsky. _That_ sound was certainly not one he'd expect Starsky to make, and he'd have to find a way to muffle his overly vocal partner if they ever _really_ followed through on the precinct scenario.

Well, he'd solve that problem when he got to it. He had plenty of time. _They_ had plenty of time.

He was afraid Starsky had passed out for a minute, but eventually the glassy eyes refocused on Hutch, who was still gripping his hand tightly.

"Jeeeezus," was all his usually verbose partner could manage to get out between gasping breaths.

"I'll take that to mean you enjoyed yourself?" Hutch asked hopefully, but still terrified that the light of day was going to burn them both.

Starsky just stared at him as if he had two heads. "What do _you_ think?"

Hutch laughed, releasing Starsky's sweaty wrist. "Come on then, let's get you cleaned up." 

Starsky struggled to sit upright, snorting. "If I remember correctly, that's how this whole thing started." He glanced at Hutch warily. "Don't even _think_ about usin' that cloth with all the grease on it."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Starsk," Hutch said innocently. "What would it accomplish to have _those_ parts of you all covered in grease?"

"That's right, and don't you . . ." Starsky looked up suddenly in blatant panic, the playfulness in Hutch's voice evidently sinking into his befogged brain. Scooting as far away as he could in his seat, Starsky held up a warding-off arm. "No. No. No _way_. You'd kill me, Hutch. I mean it."

Laughing, Hutch pulled out a clean cloth, holding it up for Starsky's inspection.

Starsky reached for it warily, finally snatching it out of Hutch's hand. He carefully wiped himself off, wincing when he reached his oversensitized penis. 

Hutch watched him fondly, knowing he needed to give Starsky a little space to acclimatize himself before he pushed him any further. He reached for the keys and started the car, wincing at the backfire it produced.

Jumping, Starsky let out a startled, "What the hell?" and looked around, settling his gaze on a patiently waiting Hutch.

"Get your pants on, Starsk, unless you want to be arrested for public indecency. That is, once we get to a part of town that might actually have public in it."

Starsky had that bewildered look on his face again. Quite appealing actually.

"But . . . but the _stakeout_, Hutch. It's not nearly time . . ."

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh,'" Starsky mimicked, staring at Hutch as if he could bore a hole through him with his eyes.

"I meant, 'oh,' as in there really wasn't a stakeout in the first place."

Starsky's eyes narrowed dangerously and Hutch knew he was in trouble.

"No stakeout?" Starsky asked, his voice low and silky.

Make that big trouble.

"Nope," Hutch said, his voice artificially cheery. "They rousted the perps yesterday on the dayshift, and I thought this would be the perfect . . ."

"No stakeout," Starsky said again, his voice like flint.

_Oh-oh._

Hutch held his hands up placatingly. "Now, Starsky, don't be mad. It all worked out for the best and . . ."

Starsky turned deliberately, reached both hands into the remaining grease still smeared on the doorframe and turned back to Hutch with a frightening lack of expression in his eyes. "You know what your problem is, Hutch?"

Hutch knew _exactly_ what that tone of voice signified. Terrified didn't even begin to cover what he was feeling right now. "Starsky. Come on now . . ."

His partner smiled. "You're _waaaay_ too clean."

\------------------------------------------

Hutch never did make it out the driver's side door fast enough, never did manage to get _all_ the spots in the interior cleaned up, and never did discover a _good_ way to restrain a naked, greasy, squirming Starsky . . . but those were all minor problems.

He just had to come up with a _believable_ explanation for suddenly having his hair dyed black.

 

**end**


End file.
